


2. Finding a Diamond on a Muddy Road

by cognomen, MayGlenn



Series: In The Hands of Destiny [1]
Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Chirrut is a little shit, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Chirrut Îmwe/Baze Malbus, First Meetings, Gen, M/M, Meet-Cute, References to Buddhism, Slow Burn, Space Husbands, on accident
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-09
Updated: 2017-02-09
Packaged: 2018-09-23 01:07:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9633269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cognomen/pseuds/cognomen, https://archiveofourown.org/users/MayGlenn/pseuds/MayGlenn
Summary: “Did you just threaten me and bribe me at the same time?” Baze asked, evenly. He found himself amused by the thought—and by the willingness to chatter."Absolutely!" Chirrut said. "Any of it stick? What's your name?" he asked.“Private Malbus.”"'Private'? Yikes. I thought my mother hated me for naming me 'Chirrut'," he teased in response. "Only joking! Private is a fine first name."





	

Jedha, they had told him, was a desert. They’d neglected to clarify that it was some special brand of hell, both dry and frozen like the environments they used to preserve meat by turning it into waterless cardboard—he knew, he’d eaten enough of it. Most of his field rations had at least one form or another of freeze-dried substance and he’d never thought he’d understand how they _felt_.

He was not allowed inside the temple, and the city seemed content to respect his guardian authority—paired with the other guards equally freezing parts of their bodies off as their faces chapped in the dry air—over the temple while his superiors worked through it. He had no idea what they could possibly be looking for in this ancient ruin of a town.

Perhaps the galaxy’s _oldest block of ice_ was inside; there was some stop worthwhile on some tourist’s docket. He himself disliked the whole atmosphere. Something seemed to be winding up down there. Not a riot—not resistance, and that was alright. It looked like a festival—the sort where one drank a lot. He was raised above, stationed halfway up the temple stairs, and it’s a good view but it had been a terrible climb (though at least the climbing had warmed him). 

It seemed to be some sort of ceremony involving stringing colored flags throughout the city, each with a single black symbol in the middle. It was almost dizzying, in its clashing joy. Baze decided he didn’t like it, or the planet, or this posting, but he kept at it anyway. Things were changing in the Republic, and he’d been almost a veteran in the Coruscant Defense Force before they’d all been rolled over into the Grand Army, and now even that didn’t seem change enough. There were careful whispers that perhaps Chancellor Palpatine had designs on an entirely different type of power. 

He cared for his new command structure—under their helmets they were as impossible to tell apart as they were with the helmets _on_ —very little. Almost exactly none. He tried not to think about it most days. Baze was a good soldier, a tenured man, even at so young an age. And after all, even on days like this - freezing his ass and other appendages off on this sandy rock—it was better than starving at home. If only something would happen so he didn’t have to think about everything else... Maybe a brawl would break out down there.

Too much to hope for, when it looked mostly like masks and dancing. Baze shouldered his rifle and shifted position, a poor combination of impatient and cold.

Chirrut Îmwe was born outside the jurisdiction of the Jedi Order, so by the time his Force Sensitivity was noticed, he was too old—exactly five—to train as a Jedi. He told himself growing up that was fine,, because he didn't need the Jedi, did he? Certainly not if they didn't need him. As he grew, what could have amounted to a chip on his shoulder transformed instead into an intense Faith: he had better things to do, there were better things to do, the Force had bigger plans for him than something as fleeting as the thousand-year-old Jedi Order.

So when he was twelve he had dedicated himself to the Kyber Temple at Jedha.

"Hey," he had told his sister on the day he boarded the transport bound for a planet two days’ travel at light speed away, "if I were going to join the Jedi Order, I wouldn't get to come back and see you."

"You're blind, Chirrut," his sister had reminded him, but she knew what he meant. And he did visit them, still, his sister, his mother and father, as often as he could.

Chirrut mostly loved being a Guardian of the Temple. There was plenty of work to do, plenty of people to educate and train him, and plenty of time for contemplation, too. He mostly liked his masters, though they wanted him to focus more on using the Force to see, and didn't like him to use his walking stick or his echo-box transmitter. They especially didn’t like him to use either where the people of the Holy City could see—they said it would strengthen people's Faith more if he navigated the world blind.

"Would it really strengthen their faith to see me fall flat on my face?" he had replied, with a huge grin, but he did as his masters requested, at least when they were watching.

Right now, for example, they were not watching, because he was scaling down the side of the temple like a _banthafucking_ badass, without either stick or echo-box. Well, okay, he had his stick slung around his back. He didn't like to be without it, because even though he was a monk and people should know better, he wasn’t so  stupid as to be wandering around at night unarmed.

He wasn't supposed to be at the bodhi day celebration, because it was a) unbecoming for members of the Church of the Force to be seen 'cavorting' at these 'heathen dances' and b) they had an important visit from the Grand Army. However, Chirrut had also been banned from attending any important meetings, since he had made his feelings about the Outlaw of the Jedi very clear, and _no_ he would not give up any Jedi who sought sanctuary here, where they should be safe, no matter what a government (which he had no vote in) said he had to do.

Chirrut knew better than to pick a fight with a delegation from Emperor Palpatine, but he was not about to stay confined to quarters all night on bodhi day, either! After all, if anyone _were_ to come to his rooms and ask him if he was hiding any Jedi criminals, he knew he would only make trouble. So it was better for everyone if he was off 'dancing with heathens' and being a 'bad monk' than getting his whole Temple in trouble. Who knew, maybe there would be some Jedi criminals who were looking for sanctuary, and he needed to be at the celebration to rescue them? The Force was definitely — _probably?_ —encouraging him to go enjoy himself tonight.

"Um, excuse me?" Chirrut whispered to the being he felt—and heard breathing—just below him. "Could you just—either move out of the way so I can jump down, or let me use your shoulder?"

The voice drifted down from the heavens...or at least from the wall above him, and Baze shifted suddenly, on guard only because he’d been surprised. Of course, anyone wanting to get the drop on him from up there probably wouldn’t have announced their presence when they could have just dropped on him.

He didn’t even get so far as to aim his rifle, instead peering up into the shadowed nook to—who was that? _A monk?_  

“What are you doing?” Baze asked, before he could stop himself. He shouldn’t _care_ , he was just supposed to guard the exits and make sure no one suspicious went in or out. Did this count? “You can’t go past here.”

"Well, if you're going to be like that, I'll just jump," Chirrut declared. He knew this Temple well. The stair was a length and a half of his staff. He could land on the railing, and from there go over the side of the stair to the ground, trusting to the Force to keep him from twisted ankles and from landing on any revelers' heads. In spite of his earlier threat, Chirrut climbed down calmly, until he was at this stranger's level. He was much taller, much broader, and much meaner than Chirrut—he could tell that just from his voice.

"This is my Temple. I can go where I please," he said, adjusting the mask on his face. It covered his eyes completely, and he had made it himself. Sister Alussa said it was very fine work, and Alussa had a nice voice, so she probably wouldn't lie and let him look stupid—he really hoped she also wouldn't rat him out—but that gave him pause, actually. Chirrut had never, until this moment, actually cared about his appearance as he did in front of this stranger!

Baze stepped back out of the way to give the stranger a place to land—and then stand—moving more toward the center of the stone stairway. He—briefly—thought it would actually probably be less tiresome if he could just go over the side and rappel down than to go down that frankly exorbitant amount of stairs.

He was wearing a mask, and the rest of his disguise—if it was supposed to be such—was very poor. The black and red sashing of the order in charge of this temple.

“You can go where you please when the Republic isn’t investigating you,” Baze said, blandly, shouldering his blaster rifle again. “But I can’t let you past without an order from my superior officer. I could call—”

He kept his tone even—clearly this man was sneaking out; he should have already notified his higher ups, but something compelled Baze to play along. At the same time, he wanted to confirm his suspicions that this man was sneaking out only to have fun. It did look like they were having an awful lot down there. His own personal instincts had never really played into Baze’s decisions before.

"Look, if the 'Republic'—" he raised his fingers into sarcastic air-quotes— "tries to 'investigate' me, you're going to have a lot more to do than just stand around and watch the festival all night."

"You know I've never had a chance to incite a riot, before!"  Chirrut threatened, with a dangerously glinting smile"But, hey. Keep this between you and me, and I'll bring you something back from the party, huh?"

He tried  smiling brightly, and hoping it was light enough for the guard to see how innocent he looked.

Baze put on his best disbelieving expression; this much bravado really _had_ to be an act. He had a very strong suspicion that this — _definitely_ a monk—was sneaking out and avoiding his superiors notice. More or less, that was harmless.

“Did you just threaten and bribe me at the same time?” Baze asked, evenly—he found himself amused by the thought— _and_ by the willingness to chatter. It put Baze a little more at ease than if the man had just been evasive. He kept his weapon on his shoulder.

"Absolutely!" Chirrut said. "Any of it stick? What's your name?" he asked, walking himself towards the edge of the stair in case this buckethead (except he didn't sound like he was wearing a helmet, so maybe not a trooper, then) made a fuss.

His name, or at least his rank and surname, were listed with his rank insignia on the front and arm of his duraplast armor, so he figured there was no harm in giving it up. It was getting too dark to read, anyway. Besides, it was all anyone ever called him. “Private Malbus.”

"'Private'? _Yikes_ . I thought my mother hated _me_ for naming me 'Chirrut'," he teased in response. "Only joking! Private is a fine first name." He could _feel_ the man roll his eyes.

“It’s my rank," Baze corrected, deadpan. It sounded formal and impersonal offered such, but he wasn’t here to make friends. “Go on, before anyone sees you. If you make a drunken scene when you come back and get me in trouble, I’ll arrest you myself.”

Chirrut was a little relieved he didn't have to trust the Force vs. a thirty-meter jump tonight, so he smiled.

"No drunken scenes, Private, I promise. You feel like...you want a comb. Or a beer. Both! Be home by midnight, Private!" Chirrut said gleefully, and scrambled over the side of the stairwell to scale it all the way down.

Baze peered over the edge to watch the monk go, slightly baffled by the encounter, but, well, the man looked young enough to still appreciate fun. For some reason he had faith that Chirrut—as the other had introduced himself in a roundabout manner—was not up to any real trouble. Baze had snuck out a few times as a teenager, before he’d signed up into the service.

If he watched long enough to make sure Chirrut made it safely to the ground level, he told himself it was only because he had nothing better to do. The ludicrous suggestion of a comb—Baze’s haircut was the prescribed military short—was one that stuck in his thoughts. There was nothing else to really think about, anyway, and Baze resigned himself to the rest of his long watch with a sigh.  

Chirrut had a grand time, indeed. He snuck out for this festival most years, but this year—perhaps because of the tragedy that would later befall Jedha—was the one that Chirrut would always remember as the best. He got his baubles, souvenirs—he had to rely on others for colors, but the rest he could suss out by touch—and gifts for the kind guard with the mean voice.

He had a good aura around him and Chirrut, who never cared about impressing anyone, wanted to impress him. So he got him a pretty bracelet (at least the woman selling it said it was pretty) with a small kyber crystal (too small to be in a lightsaber) wrapped in bright thread, and a comb. He imagined the man had long hair—or at least imagined that he _should_.

But upon returning to the Temple, Chirrut heard sounds of struggle, and someone wailing. What was happening? Was that blaster fire? Wasn't this a peaceful delegation?

Chirrut tried to run up the stairs, but someone grabbed him, and he was about to knock them out cold before they spoke:

“Wait up,” Baze warned—he’d gotten word of a struggle inside, some fuss between the monks and the men searching the temple. He didn’t know the whole situation but he <i>did</i> know that someone running in was bound to become a target. “Stop, there’s trouble, and if you run in, it will only get worse.”

It was his job to keep people out, he reminded himself, he wasn’t trying to protect this stranger who practiced a hokey religion out here on this frozen rock. He was getting a report through his earpiece.

“It’s nothing major, just a disagreement,” Baze growled, sounding displeased with the whole idea. “Let the commanding officers sort it out.”

It was nice-aura-mean-voice Private Malbus. "No. NO. You don't understand. I have to be in there. If your thugs have hurt anyone or anything—I—"

Although Chirrut had been struggling and squirming to free himself, Malbus wasn't letting him go, and wasn't letting him past.

"Please," he begged, tearing off his mask and grasping the man by the arms. "Those are my brothers and sisters in there!"

There was another scream, and Chirrut slid the blaster off the man's shoulder, wrenched himself and it free, and aimed it generally in his direction. "Let me pass."

“Stop,” Baze said, levelly. “You can’t help them like this. You’ll get shot—”

A burst of chatter in Baze’s earpiece suggested this dangerous situation had already been noticed, that on the roof of the temple their men had seen and they were already taking aim—leaving Baze lunging to regain control of his blaster before this young idiot got himself shot. It was only as he lunged closer he saw—something about the man’s eyes was strange.

He didn’t yank the gun from the monk’s hands, instead, he tucked the barrel under his own arm and held the rifle still, safely aimed down at the stone steps. When he spoke again it was into his comm. “No, I have the situation under control. The fool’s blind, I think, he’s not a danger.”

He shook the gun between them, and then yanked the earpiece out of his ear, jamming the speaker against the monk’s ear instead so he could hear what was going on.

“—repeat, get that situation under control. We have disciplined the men involved and we’re ready to disengage—”

“Tensions are already at the breaking point, but we’re retreating,” Baze said. “There’s a sniper on the roof who _will_ shoot you if you don’t hand back my rifle.”

In a less dire situation, Chirrut might have taken offense to what Malbus said on his comm-—he was _too_ dangerous, but saying so even in his head sounded childish. He knew immediately that he must listen to this man. He wasn't going to fight this. Maybe because the man seemed trustworthy, or because Chirrut had decided that his voice wasn't _mean_ . It was just gruff, almost gravelly, and kind of cute. Maybe because he was just so tall and broad and — this close — he _smelled_ good.

(In a less dire situation, Chirrut might have considered actively _flirting_ with the guy.)

"The Force sends a soldier to protect me from other soldiers?" he managed, maybe a _little_ flirtatiously ( _oops_ ), and he let the rifle go. "Hang on," he said, grasping the man's uniform—armor under his fingertips, yes, but not trooper armor—as he tried to move away.

"I got you this," he said, slipping a small pouch into the first pocket he found and then stepping away. A clean shot, should anyone still want to fire: but he trusted in the Force (only the Force would send an absolute _hunk_ to protect him, right?).

Baze was surprised that Chirrut had kept his word to return with—well a bribe, and another threat. Surprised that moments after pointing a blaster at him, he was giving gifts, and he was confused enough that even as Chirrut stepped away he had no idea what the proper response was except to take back his blaster and his ear-piece.  It was now ordering him to withdraw—he could see the other Republic soldiers doing so as well—and return to the transport. One of their own was limping, another supported between two other members; these were the offenders.

"If I find out you've hurt anyone I know, I'm going to be very cross with you next time we meet, Private Malbus."

“I wouldn’t worry about it,” Baze muttered, looking up at the mess, and then down at the messy streets and realizing how _tired_ he was of all of this. Of no job going smoothly and the fact that they were clearly bullying these people they—or he, at least—had signed on to protect. “I’m not sure I’ll be doing this much longer.”

When the monk began to move away— _was he really blind? he moved so confidently_ —Baze had to raise his voice, remembering he had one again. “Hey! Go in the back way, or you’ll run right into the legion.”

He watched Chirrut change course automatically, and shook his head, following his superiors out. He hoped never to come back to this miserable, cold rock. And it would be better without the Republic’s presence, he thought.

Chirrut ducked into an alcove and felt Baze board his ship and leave. The crystal helped, he told himself...but he could almost see the lines and paths of the Force outlining him, as though Private Malbus were very special, in some way.

"Brother Nan-in, what has happened?" he demanded once he was inside his room.

"Just a—delegation, I don't know," his roommate explained to him. "I think the soldiers were looting."

Chirrut gripped his staff, now irrationally worried for Private Baze for some reason. "Looting a temple? On bodhi day?"

"Why do you think we fought back?"

Chirrut reached out—his friend let him touch his face, where he found the raised skin of a black eye swelling. "Good to know I'm not the only idiot."

“That commander shot his own man in the kneecap for it,” Chirrut’s fellow monk confesses, and then grins, a sort of bitter expression. “I don’t think he really cared that they were trying to take artifacts, just that they didn’t have any _orders_ to take artifacts.”

" _Yikes_ ," Chirrut said. "What were they after?"

"I think the big kyber statues out in front of the prayer hall."

"Really? Like they thought we wouldn't notice? Those things are huge."

There was a pause, then Nan-in asked, “You snuck out? I thought there were guards...”

"Oh, there _was_ a guard," Chirrut gushed, "but he let me by. I'm almost positive he was stupidly handsome. He also saved my life. It's Destiny!" he declared, flopping back on his pallet.

Nan-in considered this with a skepticism that Chirrut could practically feel radiating off of him, even though they’d shared a room long enough that he was used to Chirrut’s strange ways and flights of fancy.

“You said it was destiny for you to eat eight sweet-cakes on your last name-day and all that happened was you got very sick,” Nan-in reminded, glad to see that Chirrut was at least okay after what could have been a dangerous night. Certainly, he’d probably have gotten more than a black eye. “How could you even tell if he was handsome?”

"And it was my destiny! I learned an _important_ lesson about how many sweet-cakes I can eat before puking," Chirrut said, mixing a paste of herbs to put on Nan-in's eye. "And I don't know. He was probably handsome. I liked his—you know what? Never you mind! Sit down."  

Nan-in sat down on his own bunk, leaning back against the wall and shaking his head, picking up the bag of frozen vegetables he’d been holding on his eye and returning it with a sigh of relief. “Those soldiers are nothing but trouble, and I’m sure we haven’t seen the last of them—but probably the last of your ‘destiny’—whatever that’s supposed to be.”

"I'm sure they are trouble," Chirrut sighed, easing the vegetables away to paint his brother's face with the poultice, but it had bacta in it, so it would relieve the pain and help him to heal. "But if my friend is there, I volunteer to sleep with the enemy."

Nan-in laughed. "Chirrut, you're too easily attached."

"I'm telling you, it's my Destiny!" he giggled.

“Alright —ouch!” Nan-in began, and then moved himself a little so Chirrut could get the rest of the bruise without poking him in the eye again. “It’s your destiny. I don’t know why you can’t pick a nice, _local_...I know, I know. The Force.”

Nan-in reached up and gave Chirrut a pat on the shoulder. “You’d better tell your mother tomorrow that you’re going to get married.”

"She'll be very happy," Chirrut beamed. "But we'll have to adopt. She won't love me until she has sixteen grandbabies."

"Is she aware her son is a monk? Are _you_ aware you're a monk?" Nan-in laughed.

"That nonsense about no attachments is for Jedi. Who are apparently criminals now in this kriffed up world we inhabit." Chirrut grumbled, and turned and sat, leaving his fingers dirty.  "What's happening, Nan-in?"

“I wish I knew, Chirrut,” Nan-in confessed—his eye felt better already, and he lifted the vegetables back up with a sigh, leaning shoulder-to-shoulder with his friend. “I thought we could trust the Republic but...”

He shrugged. “At least we can trust each other. I hope things are better for your sixteen excommunicated children.”

Chirrut laughed, and when he laid his head on the pillow that night, he thought less of sixteen grandbabies for his mother, and more of Private Malbus.

'Private,' he giggled with juvenile banality to himself, and drifted to sleep.

 

**Author's Note:**

> [ **Finding a Diamond on a Muddy Road** ](http://www.ashidakim.com/zenkoans/zenindex.html)
> 
> Gudo was the emperor's teacher of his time. Nevertheless, he used to travel alone as a wandering mendicant. Once when he was on his way to Edo, the cultural and political center of the shogunate, he approached a little village named Takenaka. It was evening and a heavy rain was falling. Gudo was thoroughly wet. His straw sandals were in pieces. At a farmhouse near the village he noticed four or five pairs of sandals in the window and decided to buy some dry ones.
> 
> The woman who offered him the sandals, seeing how wet he was, invited him in to remain for the night in her home. Gudo accepted, thanking her. He entered and recited a sutra before the family shrine. He was then introduced to the women's mother, and to her children. Observing that the entire family was depressed, Gudo asked what was wrong.
> 
> "My husband is a gambler and a drunkard," the housewife told him. "When he happens to win he drinks and becomes abusive. When he loses he borrows money from others. Sometimes when he becomes thoroughly drunk he does not come home at all. What can I do?"
> 
> "I will help him," said Gudo. "Here is some money. Get me a gallon of fine wine and something good to eat. Then you may retire. I will meditate before the shrine."
> 
> When the man of the house returned about midnight, quite drunk, he bellowed: "Hey, wife, I am home. Have you something for me to eat?"
> 
> "I have something for you," said Gudo. "I happened to be caught in the rain and your wife kindly asked me to remain here for the night. In return I have bought some wine and fish, so you might as well have them."
> 
> The man was delighted. He drank the wine at once and laid himself down on the floor. Gudo sat in meditation beside him.
> 
> In the morning when the husband awoke he had forgotten about the previous night. "Who are you? Where do you come from?" he asked Gudo, who was still meditating.
> 
> "I am Gudo of Kyoto and I am going on to Edo," replied the Zen master.
> 
> The man was utterly ashamed. He apologized profusely to the teacher of his emperor.
> 
> Gudo smiled. "Everything in this life is impermanent," he explained. "Life is very brief. If you keep on gambling and drinking, you will have no time left to accomplish anything else, and you will cause your family to suffer too."
> 
> The perception of the husband awoke as if from a dream. "You are right," he declared. "How can I ever repay you for this wonderful teaching! Let me see you off and carry your things a little way."
> 
> "If you wish," assented Gudo.
> 
> The two started out. After they had gone three miles Gudo told him to return. "Just another five miles," he begged Gudo. They continued on.
> 
> "You may return now," suggested Gudo.
> 
> "After another ten miles," the man replied.
> 
> "Return now," said Gudo, when the ten miles had been passed.
> 
> "I am going to follow you all the rest of my life," declared the man.
> 
> Modern Zen teachings in Japan spring from the lineage of a famous master who was the successor of Gudo. His name was Mu-nan, the man who never turned back.


End file.
